


Check and Mate

by Jemisard



Series: Rewriting the Game [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-17
Updated: 2011-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-15 17:51:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jemisard/pseuds/Jemisard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty has made a decisive move in their game. Now Sherlock must decide what to do with the hand left to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Check and Mate

“Sherlock... I made you a promise at the pool. Remember? I said I was going to burn your heart out. And I am. This is the kicker, you’ll like this twist. I’m going to give you exactly sixty seconds, exactly, during which time John can say anything he wants to.

“Then, I’m going to blow him up anyway.”

“NO!” Sherlock was on his feet, hand slamming the desk. “No, that’s not how the game works, Moriarty, I solve the puzzle and you give him back to me in one piece!”

“Sherlock,” John said quietly.

“No!”

“Sherlock, be quiet,” John said, his voice shaking. “I’ve only got fifty one seconds. Less. I’m not spending them with you hurling abuse at him.”

“Tell me where you are. Tell me, we’ll...”

“Sherlock. It’s not your fault. You did what you had to, catching.... catching Harry. If she hit that girl, she needs to face the law. I don’t blame you.”

“John.” He held the phone, cradling it to his ear.

“This isn’t your fault either. Him being too gutless to finish me off himself, refusing to set me free, it’s not your fault. Promise me you’ll get him, Sherlock. Don’t let him keep killing.” His voice cracked with a sob. “No one else can. Get him for me.”

“No, no, John, I can’t... I can’t do this. This is.. I care.” The words were barely a whisper. “I _care_.”

“That’s why you’ll get him...” Breath. “I care too, Sherlock.”

There was a crack and the line went dead.

“John?!” He knew he wasn’t there and he couldn’t stop himself. “John?!”

The whole incidents’ room was silent, watching as Sherlock clung to the phone and kept whispering John’s name over and over.

Phones started ringing. Donovan was shaken to action, grabbing one and listening to the other end before hanging up. “Sir...?”

Lestrade blinked and looked up at her.

“An explosion has been reported... under 221b Baker street.”

Horrific understanding trickled into Sherlock’s mind. John had been in the basement apartment, 221c. He’d been _right there_ the entire time, at home and now it was all gone.

Photos. Clothes. Papers. Laptops. Everything John owned was in that apartment and Moriarty had taken even the memories of him in that one action.

Home is where the heart is.

Sherlock stared at the phone in his hands, then started as it began to ring again. His lips twisted and he angrily pulled out the battery, shoving it in one pocket, the phone in the other and took off without a word for the door.

“Sherlock! Sherlock, wait!” Lestrade called after him, but Sherlock didn’t even pause, forcing Lestrade to run to catch up with him. “Sherlock! Where are you going?”

It was patently obvious where Sherlock was going. He didn’t dignify the man with a response, just swept out towards the street, gaze flicking up to where he could see smoke billowing up into the sky from the explosion.

“You can’t go,” Lestrade said and he grabbed Sherlock’s elbow.

Sherlock drove the elbow back to dislodge Lestrade’s grip, spinning sharply on his heel to drive his other elbow into the DI’s shoulder to send him off balance. He smacked both hands sharply over his ears to stun him and then used a double handed shove to send him to the pavement.

Then he was off, hailing down a taxi before anyone could get out and stop him for having just assaulted a police officer.

Lestrade should have known better than to try and stop him.

It was his own damn fault, really, Sherlock thought coldly as the taxi sped towards Baker Street.

Ambulances sped past them, squad cars racing to reach the scene, to close it off before journalists got them and got into it. Sherlock could vividly picture it; closing his eyes, all he saw was the way that a suicide bomber was torn apart and how sickeningly unfair it was that John had survived that in Afghanistan only to be put in a vest himself.

 _I care too, Sherlock._

The taxi came to an idle, but there was no traffic lights before their next turn.

“I think they’re here for you, sir,” the cabbie called back.

Sherlock looked up.

A black car was parked in front of them, filling the road. One had pulled up behind them.

“Yes. Yes, they are. A lady will sort out the cost and a fee for the inconvenience.” He opened the door and stepped out, standing there as the door on the front car opened and Lenore stepped out, followed by the man himself.

“Mycroft.”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s expression was somber, an excellent impression of empathy and condolence. “Sherlock, I’m sorry-”

“For what? That you didn’t have surveillance on him? That another part of your city was blown up and you can’t find him? What are you sorry for, exactly?” A cold wind hit them, whipping Sherlock’s coat to the side, still open, his hands in his pants pockets. “Because I know you’re not sorry about the good Doctor. You don’t care about people.”

 _I care too, Sherlock_.

He closed his eyes, trying to block the echo of those last words.

“Sherlock.”

He growled slightly at his brother’s interruption.

“I am sorry about John. He made you... he was your friend and he looked after you. I appreciated those things. He was good for you.”

“Well, isn’t that sweet? Now you’ve held me up long enough for the police to make a mess of the scene, I really need to get going.” He turned around.

“You’re not going to Baker Street, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s footsteps came closer. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go back there before the coroner’s team have been through.”

“You mean before they finish gathering up whatever splatters of gore and flesh remain of the body.”

“Yes.” Mycroft didn’t touch him. Mycroft knew better. “You don’t need to go and see that.”

“I’m an adult, Mycroft, I’ll decide what I do and do not need,” he snapped.

“I see,” his brother said softly.

Sherlock spun on his heel, ready to defend himself, but it was already too late. The taser hit him in the arm and after a moment of pain, the world went black.

*~*~*

He didn’t dream, just became aware of the fact he was sore and lying down on a bed. His eyes flew open, head snapping to the side to see Mycroft sitting next to him, reading through papers, legs crossed primly.

He looked around. The room was familiar, even if the paint had changed since he was last here. The spare room at Mycroft’s town house.

“You’ve been out for four hours. We gave you a light sedation when you reacted violently to the suggestion you couldn’t attend the bomb site.” He closed his folder. “I would prefer not to expose you to the bloodshed of your best friend’s body having been blown apart.”

“I’m not a child,” Sherlock snapped, sitting up and swinging his legs off the bed. “I need to get to-”

The door pushed open. “Just the once, dear, I thought you could do with a cup of tea for the shock.”

Mrs Hudson came in, putting down the tray on the foot of the bed. Sherlock knew he was staring, but he couldn’t quite seem to make himself stop.

She gave him a sad smile. Her eyes were puffy and red. “Giselle picked me up from the scene when I tried calling your phone. She told me what happened.”

Sherlock stood up and let himself be pulled into a hug from his land lady. He closed his eyes, trying not to shake with relief that at least she hadn’t been home at the time. He hadn’t even thought of her until then, had dimly just expected her to be here since John wasn’t but he knew how close she had come to being killed, blown to pieces along with his flat mate.

Her hands rubbed his back, patting with rough surety. “I got that DI of yours to gather up some things for us. Now, you sit down, have that tea and get your head in order and I’ll go and get them. The drier should be done by now.”

She let him go and bustled out again. Sherlock sat down, swallowing and looking to his brother.

Mycroft shrugged slightly. “I thought you might appreciate the company. She has nowhere else to stay and I will be busy for the next few days, so the two of you are welcome to the town house.”

“I need to get to the scene,” Sherlock said softly.

“Not yet,” Mycroft replied. “They’re still cleaning up.”

“I need to start the investigation. This was aimed at me, this _game_ is for me.”

“Now, Sherlock, you listen to me,” Mrs Hudson said as she came back in with a shopping bag of things and a jumper.

A black and white striped jumper that was still warm from the drier as she handed it to him.

“You aren’t going in there. There’s no need. This Moriarty didn’t go into the building and he didn’t leave anything in there. You’re smarter than that. And drink your tea.” She started unpacking the bag. Sherlock watched, holding the warm clothing to his chest as he watched the items being set out.

John’s strong box, which Sherlock knew had his medals inside, a few photographs. His own violin, the case badly damaged but a quick check showed that the violin itself was intact and unharmed. A photo of John and Mrs Hudson from New Year’s. John’s sig, dusty and scratched, but still functional.

“We found the laptops, but they were badly damaged,” Mrs Hudson continued.

“I’m having the hard drives recovered,” Mycroft added.

“I need a new laptop,” Sherlock muttered, lifting the jumper up and closing his eyes, inhaling the scent of familiar detergent and the faint smell of smoke under it.

“I’ll have one arranged.”

“And the CCTV footage of Baker Street, covering from the moment I left until after the explosion,” he stated. He finally picked up the tea and sipped it. Mrs Hudson never added quite the right amount of sugar for his taste, but it was perfect for being characteristically off.

“Very well.” Mycroft stood up. “I’ll leave you to it. Do take care of him, Mrs Hudson, don’t let him forget dinner.”

“Shoo, shoo,” Mrs Hudson fluttered. “I’ve got him now.”

Mycroft left.

Mrs Hudson nodded at Sherlock. “And we’ll find this monster who took your Doctor Watson. I’ll get some dinner started, you have a shower, you smell terrible and then you can talk at me while you work this out.”

He nodded and she left.

She was right, he was smelling a bit ripe. He was glad she was here. He could’ve wasted hours chasing around the bomb site for no point.

He shook his head and stood, moving to the bathroom. Somehow, the jumper ended up coming with him.

*~*~*

He spent longer than he should have in the shower, soaking in the heat and steam. He ended up dressing just in pajama pants and then hesitantly, guiltily, slipping on John’s jumper, giving in to the impulse to hug his arms around himself, eyes closed to try and picture what he would be doing now if this was just another case, if the victim wasn’t his flat mate.

When he came out, Mrs Hudson didn’t make any comment about the fact he was wearing John’s top, too broad in the shoulders making up for too short in the sleeves on his own lanky frame. She just sat him down with another cup of tea and indicated the box that had been delivered.

His new laptop and the discs of CCTV footage. He curled up on the couch to start his review, taking a vague note of Mrs Hudson sitting down in the armchair and pulling out some knitting needles, the television on low in the background.

It wasn’t at home with John. But it was an acceptable stand by, since home was rubble and John was blood and gore splattered inside a body bag in the morgue.

He worked systematically through all the discs, fast forwarding most of it. It was only when he managed to find the actual assault that he started to give it his concentrated attention.

A man walked to the door, knocked and when John opened the door, sprayed him in the face. Three other men lurched from a nearby car into the building, slamming the door.

He watched carefully. No sign of movement upstairs. No clear view into the basement apartment. It was nearly half an hour until they left. One ran off somewhere else; Sherlock made note to trace his movements, maybe he joined the sniper watching John. Two others helped a third out and Sherlock smiled smugly at the obvious injuries.

He paused the footage and played it back.

It wasn’t good quality. It was terrible, really, but he could see a couple of things immediately. That man was barely conscious and he was wearing different shoes. He wore sneakers in and black shoes out.

He added that to the file in his mind and kept watching. One ran off. Three and Four helped Two into the car. Two was bundled in the back with Three and Four drove.

It would be twenty eight minutes between them leaving and the phone call to him. Time to arrange delivery of the phone, probably.

Though it seemed unlikely that restraining John would have taken half an hour. Why were they half an hour in there? And why didn’t someone leave immediately to arrange delivery of the phone to the Yard?

“The sniper must have been positioned close, close enough to see into the bottom apartment. High angle, so by necessity the bomb would have been placed quite close to the window to be visible, shallow line of firing. The sniper was on top of the building one back, across the road, the old apartment block that’s being converted. It’s abandoned and quiet.” He looked over to Mrs Hudson, who was watching him as she knitted.

“I don’t know, dear. The blast seemed to be more central than that. Doctor Watson’s bed was mostly intact and that’s at the front of the building.”

Sherlock nodded and leapt up. “I need to see the site.”

“Shoes, dear. You might want real pants as well...”

“No time! No time, Mrs Hudson!” He grabbed shoes, for practicality (because John would insist on it) and his coat and was snatching up his phone as he ran out of the door.

He ran through the possibilities in his head as they drove. He didn’t want to think too much on them, the possibility of it all falling through and being wrong was too great and he might start adjusting evidence to fit his theory, rather than the theory to the evidence.

But... it was not impossible.

He shoved bills at the cabbie and ran across the road, leaping the police tape and skidding to the edge of the crater. “Anderson! Stop dragging your knuckles, tell me where the centre of the blast was!”

“Holmes?!” Anderson looked up from gathering blood samples. “You’re not meant to be here! You can’t be here!”

“Rubbish. I _am_ here, so clearly I _can_ be here. Where was the bomb located?”

“You aren’t allowed to be here, you need to go-” He trailed off.

“Home?” Sherlock gave him a bitter smile. “Yes, well, are you going to help me, Anderson?”

“Will you leave if I tell you?”

“Yes.” He nodded.

“Over there.” Anderson pointed to a spot on the former floor.

Against the old fireplace. “Stand there! I need to check something!” He took off again, running across the world, under the tape this time and to the renovation site.

Scampering up–he took note of the evidence of recent activity–he came to the top and stopped.

A sniper’s nest. Perfectly camouflaged from above, big enough for one person on their belly. And there was a package inside.

He pulled it out and turned it over in his hands. It was addressed to him, in Moriarty’s perfect hand writing.

“Holmes!” Donovan’s head appeared over the edge. “What the hell are you...”

“I found the sniper’s nest. Do you have some kind of laser sight on you? A pointer, even?” He flicked out his pocket knife and cut open the envelope, sliding everything out.

A vial of murky water. A matchbox car. Five playing cards. And a photo. A horrific, vivid photo of John, strapped in a vest and flinching from the flash, his eyes raw and blood on his face.

“A pointer... Is that John’s jumper?”

“No.” It was his now. He snatched the pointer from her hands and shimmied into the sniper’s nest. He turned it on and pointed, following the line on the laser.

It didn’t reach, but it gave him the clear sight.

The sniper couldn’t see the bomb.

He rushed out, grabbing Donovan. “He couldn’t see the bomb! It was out of sight! He couldn’t see the bomb!”

Donovan shook him off. “Are you wearing your pajamas? And I’m sure that is John’s...”

“Donovan, stop being so frightfully stupid and listen to me! The sniper could not see the bomb! The person in the bomb was unable to resist in any way because they could not be be _seen_ by the sniper!” He shook her again. “Do you _see_?”

Understanding dawned on her. “John was conscious. He was talking to you. If he was conscious and unobserved...”

“He would’ve fought to free himself. The person in the bomb... The second man!”

The curiously small second man with the changing shoes.

Four men went in. Four came out. Just not the _same_ four.

He started dialling.

“Sherlock?”

“He’s alive. He’s alive, but I don’t know for how long. I know if you could’ve traced the car, you would have, but I need the enhancements on the vehicle, make, type, tyres, anything that might locate it or tell me where it’s been.”

“Have you been using again?”

“No! Mycroft please!” He took a deep breath. “Please. John wasn’t in the bomb. I need you to help me. I need you. _Please._ ”

Donovan was staring at him in shock. The world seemed silent around him.

“I’ll meet you at my town house,” Mycroft finally said.

“Thank you,” he breathed out. He disconnected the phone and grabbed the parcel, gathering everything back up. Then he looked to Donovan. “What?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it and shook her head. “I’ll keep Lestrade updated on what’s happened with you.”

“Is he-?” He gestured.

“He’s recovering, no thanks to you.” She made a shooing motion. “Go. Do your freak thing and find him.”

Sherlock gave her a slight smile and took off again, to get back to the town house.

*~*~*

The items were spread on the table. Sherlock was studying the sediment from the bottle, the water already dismissed. It was from the Thames, but _where_ along the Thames only the dirt would tell them.

Mycroft was looking at the car, turning it in his fingers and looking at it through a monocle. “Modified into a Kia, ninety three model, I think, cheap enough on the market these days. Nothing special. There’s a driver fastened inside, too small to have distinct features but I would hazard to say... male.”

“John,” Sherlock said.

“Potentially,” Mycroft conceded. “We can’t assume that. He’s played your emotions once, Sherlock, he will happily do so again.”

“Potentially,” Sherlock agreed. “What about the cards?”

“Eight of spades, eight of clubs, ace of spades, ace of clubs, Jack of Hearts.” Mycroft popped out the monocle. “The Jack of Hearts is probably reference to his threat to burn your heart out, Jack also representing the Knave, a male servant or man of lowly birth or standing. Jack, of course, is also a diminutive of John.”

“Dead man’s hand, dear.” Mrs Hudson set down tea for them both. “White and no sugar for you, Sherlock, white and three Splenda for you, Mycroft.”

“Dead man’s what?” Sherlock looked up from his investigation.

“Dead man’s hand. It’s the bad luck hand in poker.” The door bell rang. “I’ll get that, that’ll be that nice DI or yours.”

“My DI? What, Lestrade? He’s not allowed to drive.”

“Oh, I know, but I told him to pop around anyway to see if he could help. He’s terribly worried by all this.” She shuffled off, and her voice was clearly heard from the front door. “Hello, Inspector, oh, hello, dear, did you drive him over? Come on in, Sherlock and and Mycroft have the evidence in the living room, I’ll start a new pot of tea going.”

Lestrade came in, looking none the worse for his run in with Sherlock outside of the yard. Sally Donovan followed him in, looking between Sherlock and his brother.

“Holmes.”

Mycroft nodded politely and stood up. “Welcome, Lestrade, Donovan. Please, take a seat. We were just trying to decode this puzzle. Do either of you know anything about poker?”

“A bit,” Lestrade said, sitting himself down and dragging the playing cards over. “Dead man’s hand.”

“We know,” Sherlock snapped. “The bad luck hand.”

“Sudden death hand in some games. If you draw it, you’re automatically out.”

“Why,” Mycroft asked, interest perked.

“Story is that Bill Hikock drew this hand just before he was killed. He was playing poker and was dealt two pairs with the last card face down. Common belief is that the other card was either the Queen of Clubs or a diamond, not the Jack of Hearts.” Lestrade picked up the card, noting the burn in the Jack card. “This was the evidence recovered from the sniper’s nest?”

Sherlock nodded, pieces slotting together. “So... that hand could be construed as a threat of death?”

“I suppose so. Yeah.”

Sherlock looked to Mycroft, who nodded slowly. “Jack of Hearts, dead man’s hand, Thames water and a car with a driver.”

“He’s going to drown John in a car in the Thames,” Sherlock said softly. “Or at least, that’s the conclusion we’re meant to draw. Someone will be drowned.”

“The Thames is hardly a short river, Sherlock,” Lestrade murmured. “That’s a lot of ground to cover, looking for a single car.”

“A ninety three Kia, silver grey, two door,” Mycroft clarified.

“Any idea when?” Donovan sounded frustrated. “Since you’ve given us where and how, when will they do it?”

“The evidence is perfectly clear, Donovan,” Sherlock sneered. “ _John_ would follow.”

“ _John_ isn’t here, you’re stuck with us. When will it happen?”

There was a moment of silence.

“Tonight,” Lestrade said in the end. “If I were him, I’d do it tonight. It’s Sunday night, not many people about because of work tomorrow and gives only a minimal amount of time to solve the puzzle. He’s playing so you can’t win. If he hasn’t done it already, it’ll be tonight.”

If. It was a horrible word. Sherlock curled up a bit more, resting his chin on his knees, staring blankly at the wall instead of his microscope. _If_ it hadn’t been done already. _If_ Moriarty hadn’t had John drowned last night while they were busy with the explosion.

If. If. If. If. If.

“Sherlock, is that John’s jumper?”

“No. It’s mine.” He hugged himself.

“He’s going to want it back,” Lestrade added.

“It’s _mine_ ,” Sherlock said sulkily.

“Sherlock, have you identified where that sediment is from,” Mycroft asked, neatly derailing the brewing sulking fit.

Sherlock looked back at the microscope, running a comparison in his head. “Lambeth,” he breathed out. “I think it’s somewhere in Lambeth.”

“Think,” Mycroft asked sharply.

“Not enough sediment to be more sure,” Sherlock murmured. “Probably Lambeth.” He nodded. “I’m going to patrol. Wait.”

“You’re not going alone,” Lestrade said. “Donovan, come on.”

“I don’t require baby sitting,” he snapped.

“Sherlock, you’re wearing your pajamas and your house mate’s jumper and a dressing gown. I don’t think you’re in a fit mental state to be left alone near Moriarty or his minions.”

Sherlock looked at his state of dress. “I still don’t need a baby sitter.”

“And when you manage to remember clothing before barging into a crime scene, you won’t have a police escort. But right now, Donovan and I are coming with you.” Lestrade stood up, hand on the table for stability.

“Fine. Hurry then, the sun is already down, we’re losing time.” He looked to Mycroft. “Your spy network will be keeping a look out?”

“Sherlock, I don’t have a spy network, but yes, we’ll be keeping an eye on things.” He sipped his tea. “Go on, get chasing criminals.”

“Lestrade! Let us go! Donovan, you drive! He swept out, expecting the other two to follow.

And prepared to hotwire the car if they weren’t fast enough.

He took the back seat of the car, winding down the windows and watching out as Lestrade and Donovan got in and they took off.

Every broken street light was a possible dump site. Every glint on the water was the reflection of light on a sinking car. Sherlock knew that he was getting paranoid, wired on caffeine and not enough nicotine.

He stole one of Donovan’s cigarettes, lighting up in the backseat and breathing smoke out the window as he watched out closely.

The glowing tip of his cigarette was the only light for far too much of the trip. Someone had destroyed no small number of the lights by the Thames, casting the water into darkness.

Every minute that dragged by without sign of any of a dumped car tightened the coil in Sherlock’s gut. Eventually, after nearly an hour, Lestrade made them park to let Sherlock pace and smoke another two cigarettes. Donovan walked out and away from them, which was probably for the best. She had threatened to drown him in the river if he didn’t stop analysing her relationship history and Sherlock wanted to see her try it.

He leaned on the railing by the river, inhaling deeply and staring out. They didn’t know if the dump had already happened. They were trying to cover the Thames in Lambeth and out several miles beyond that.

And if they didn’t get it right, John would drown.

Drowning wasn’t a pleasant death. Not if you were awake. Unconscious, it was apparently quite peaceful, but awake...

Hitting the water would be a cold shock, causing a reflexive inhale. John might have been able to resist that, meaning he would hold his breath, probably fighting to free himself. He would have to be restrained, so he would be trying to free himself. Possibly the water would leak in slowly, which might be worse, because the water would creep up slowly, with a morbid inevitability. Opening the door would be impossible, even if he managed to free himself, due to the pressure differences between the water and the air inside.

“SIR!”

His head snapped up at the scream. Donovan. And she’d only be screaming for one reason.

He dropped the cigarette, taking off down the pavement towards her voice. He didn’t hear Lestrade with him; he didn’t care. He could hear Donovan screaming for help. His feet beat a rough pattern in his head that drowned out the pounding of his heart, his vision dark at the edges as he panted for breath, leaping a fence and seeing it.

The car was already mostly underwater, just the back poking out, bubbles rippling the surface of the water. Donovan surfaced, gasping for breath. “I can’t break the window! I need something to break the window!”

Sherlock patted his pockets, looking around for a brick, a rock... And he felt the sig.

He pulled out the gun, throwing it out to her. She caught it, diving under again with strong kicks.

Sherlock saw the police car go racing past, chasing after a car that only dimly registered in his mind. He was focused on the river, on Donovan surfacing again and throwing the gun to shore. “Call an ambulance, Holmes!”

He pulled out his phone, numbly dialling nine, nine, nine, watching as bubbles escaped to the surface again and Donovan came up, taking another deep breath and vanishing once more.

Sherlock was barely aware enough to give their location and tell them to bring an ambulance, because Donovan came up and she had a body in her arms, kicking towards the shore while dragging the dead weight with her.

The phone was dropped; Sherlock came to the edge, grabbing the man under the arms and dragging him upwards, onto the bank.

It was John. Face slack, lips blue tinged, arms tied behind his back. Sherlock grabbed his knife, popping it open to cut the plastic ties, lying John flat on the ground and dropping his head to his chest.

“Is he-?”

Heart beat. Weak, but there. No breathing. Sherlock surged up, hands cupping John’s face. “Don’t you dare, don’t you dare die, you’re not _allowed_ to die,” he demanded.

“Is he alive?!” Donovan sank to her knees, panting.

“Pulse. Not breathing.” He knew how to resuscitate someone, surely, somewhere in his mind he had that knowledge stored away.

“Fuck.” She crawled over, moving to pinch John’s nose and Sherlock’s memory flooded back. He batted her away, tilting John’s face up, pinching his nose and leaning down to lock his mouth over his friend’s, breathing hard into his mouth.

He leaned back, looking at him, but nothing happened. He did it again, willing something to happen, anything suggesting life. “Come on, John, come on, breathe,” he whispered. “Dammit, breathe!”

“Stop yelling at him and keep breathing for him,” Donovan snapped.

“Not helping,” Sherlock yelled back, but he put his hand under John’s neck to arch him up more and he breathed into his mouth again, trying not to panic as John was getting paler and bluer around the mouth.

“Don’t die, you’re not allowed to die!” He breathed out hard, staring at John’s cold face. “No. No, you can’t die.”

He cupped both hands on John’s neck and closed their mouths together once more, much less professional but breathing out hard once more.

He felt John’s throat move and then the bitter taste of Thames water in his mouth. He pulled away, spitting it aside and rolling John onto his side, hands on his shoulder and back as he coughed up water, retching and hacking and never had such revolting sounds been so wonderful to Sherlock’s ears.

Even more wonderful than the approaching sirens of the approaching ambulance.

*~*~*

By the time John opened his eyes, Sherlock had rearranged the room, refused to change into the hospital scrubs and been contacted by Lestrade to tell him that the men driving the car he had seen speeding away had been apprehended and were being questioned.

They wouldn’t lead back to Moriarty. But Sherlock was okay with that. Because he was never going to leave John alone in a situation where he could be taken and held hostage again.

When he opened his eyes, Sherlock was watching his face, listening to the machines beep slightly faster as John roused back to consciousness.

“You’re not allowed to do that again,” he said by way of opening conversation.

“What,” John asked, voice hoarse with Thames water.

“Be kidnapped. Die. All that.” He gestured vaguely. “You can’t. It’s not allowed. I’m writing it into the lease.”

John smiled weakly, eyes closing again. “Knew you’d find me,” he whispered. “When the bomb didn’t go off. I knew you’d beat him.”

Sherlock swallowed, eyes closing briefly. He nearly hadn’t. He had very nearly not solved it. He had nearly charged off to the bomb site, lost time...

Lost John.

“Sherlock. It’s okay.” John reached out, tousling Sherlock’s hair softly. “You saved me.”

“You died,” he said plainly.

“I’m not dead now,” he whispered. “I’m too sore to be dead.”

“You did a lot of damage to your shoulders and wrists trying to free yourself,” Sherlock murmured. “I thought you were blown up.”

“I thought he was going to blow me up.” He finally dropped his hand from Sherlock’s head, looking at the bandaging on his wrist.

“He blew up our house.”

John met his gaze, eyes wide. “Mrs Hudson?”

“Angry. Worried about you.”

“And... Harry?”

Sherlock had forgotten about the case. The drink driver. “She doesn’t know you were dead. I don’t know if anything been done about the, thing, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” John closed his eyes.

They sat in silence for a while. Sherlock climbed onto the side of John’s bed, perching on the edge and watching until John opened his eyes and looked up at him.

Sherlock leaned forwards, pecking a light kiss to John’s lips. “I still, you know. _Care_.”

John’s shock faded to a mild smile. “Yeah. I know, Sherlock. I had sort of hoped it wasn’t just because you thought I was about to die.”

“No. Of course not. Why would I do that?”

John chuckled slightly, reaching out and taking Sherlock’s hands. “I thought so.”

“You do, right? Care?”

“Yes, Sherlock.” He smiled again. “I care, too. Now let me rest for a while, okay?”

“Okay.” Sherlock settled to sit properly on the side. “I’m staying here, though.”

“That’s fine. That’s nice,” John whispered. “Just... Sherlock?”

“Mm?”

“Are you wearing my jumper?”

Sherlock looked at the jumper. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

John just nodded.

And that was just fine as well.

 

End Three Complete.  
And that’s how it actually happened.


End file.
